“Sure.” I hold open the door for her, then follow her inside and back to the offices.
“We’re trying to raise the money to restore the house to its original structure.” Florence takes out a bunch of photos and documents and spreads them over a long table. “But we’re having a terrible time with the zoning laws and such, which is hampering our fund-raising efforts. And because it’s such a prime piece of land, we’re worried the city will pressure us to sell it to a developer, who would demolish the house.”
“That would be a shame.”
“Yes. We want to apply for government grants, but we must emphasize the historical value of the home. That’s what Olivia has been working on, and we’re going to submit photographs as well. As a historian, what elements of the house itself would you consider most important?”
I pick up a photo and study it. “The architectural features that are most distinctive to the time period and house style. Like these decorated gables, the polygonal tower, the wraparound porch. And interior features like the wooden relief panels and plaster medallions.”
Florence blinks. “We haven’t been inside yet.”
“Uh, I meant… I assume the house has features like that.” I clear my throat. “Why haven’t you been inside yet?”
“We need to thoroughly clean it, but we don’t have the money or staffing.” Florence shrugs. “That’s the reason most things are delayed.”
“I could help with clearing it out.”
She glances at me. “You mean the interior?”
“Sure. I’d just need a dumpster. There’s some furniture you might want to keep and restore, but there’s also a lot of stuff from previous remodeling jobs that can be thrown away.”
“How do you know that?”
Though this might get me in trouble, I admit, “Liv and I went into the house a few weeks ago. Just to look around.”
“Oh.” Florence looks intrigued. “And you say there’s still furniture?”
“It’s pretty much a mess,” I tell her. “But if you want, I can start to go through it all. I’d be able to tell what’s worth saving and what should be tossed. Then I can take pictures of the interior features that are historically important.”
“Oh, how wonderful, Dean!” A smile breaks over her face, crinkling her eyes. “We would love for you to do that. I’m afraid we don’t have the funds to pay you, but—”
“I’m volunteering,” I say. “I’m on leave from the university this semester, so I’ll be glad to have something to do.”
Florence claps her hands in excitement and gives me a warm hug that smells like talcum powder.
“I’m heading to a board meeting right now,” she says, gathering up the documents and photos. “I’ll tell the other members about you. They’ll be thrilled. We’ve been wanting to get started on the interior, but just haven’t had the resources.”
She pauses at the door. “Was Olivia able to locate the keys? I didn’t think anyone had found out where they are yet.”
“No, but I don’t need the keys.” Though I realize I’m admitting to breaking and entering, I suspect Florence won’t mind. “There’s a way to get in through the side door. I just have to squeeze through.”
“Oh.” She tugs one of her gloves up her wrist, eyeing me with speculation. “Well, you are quite the expert at squeezing into tight spaces, aren’t you, Dean? Out of them too, I imagine.”
She gives me a smile and a little wave before heading off.
I have no idea what she just meant by that, but then again I don’t have much experience dealing with elderly ladies.
I take out my phone and text Liv that I’m heading up to the Butterfly House. I stop to get a toolkit and other supplies out of our storage garage, then drive to where the house sits on its huge parcel of land.
After shouldering my way in through the loose board at the side, I walk through the house again, studying the furniture, everything that needs to be fixed, picturing how it would look if it were all restored to its original glory.
Then I open the front door and get to work.
May 7
It takes one phone call. It’s almost a relief, as if I’ve been waiting for the catalyst. The excuse I need to finally confront the thing that has gnawed at me for weeks.
It’s a warm day, the trees and flowers flourishing, the sun bright. A few boats are out on the lake, the sails like giant bird wings. After working for a couple hours at the Butterfly House, I drive to the café with the intention of asking Liv if she wants to go to lunch.
The place looks phenomenal with new tables and chairs, the walls painted and murals almost done, the hardwood floor gleaming. I find Liv in the kitchen, going over some papers with a few people she’d introduced to me as the head chef and kitchen staff.
Liv gives me a quick smile and wave of hello, then turns back to the discussion. I watch her, my heart thumping hard as it always does at the sight of her.